There is Always Some Reason in Madness
by xmiss-anthrope
Summary: Between Sherlock unlocking Irene's phone and Irene ending up in Karachi. Sherlock goes to ask Irene for forgiveness and she notices that they are being followed. A bit AU. Rating has gone up, oops.
1. brooklyn, brooklyn, take me in

**A/N: Hello, lovely people! I've missed my fanfiction terribly but due to school/work/new baby brother, I've been unable to write anything new but now I have and I'm awfully excited. This is the first time I've written any Adlock or whatever you wish to call it, despite them being my favorite, so I hope it's all right. It was originally inspired by the song I and Love and You by the Avett Brothers because I was a bit stuck but I've removed the lyrics from where I placed them originally. Also the first chapters were written months before the others, and the writing is a bit stylistically different. Anyway, I own nothing, and I hope you enjoy.**

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It was cold, but not nearly as cold as England in the winter. The apartment was dark and small, but fairly clean – nothing like her flat in Belgravia.

She had chosen the flat because it was out of the way, lacking any of the grandeur she knew Sherlock would expect of her, and surrounded by strangers. Of course he could find her, if he tried, but she had prepared for that. Anything that it took to avoid breaking again. And why would he search for a dead woman?

The bottle of vodka was opened faster than the lights were turned on. It burned her throat and blocked out the tears that threatened to drip down her cheeks. She fell asleep before the bottle was anywhere near empty, when she was just numb enough to hit send on the text message waiting on her phone.

_I'm in Brooklyn. Let's have dinner. IA_


	2. i asked to dance, she said it's fine

Irene woke to the early morning light, a vaguely unpleasant taste in her mouth and a banging in her head that mimicked the banging at the door. She rubbed her eyes, hoping that her mascara wasn't as smudged as she thought, and unlocked the door.

"Oh." She nearly shut the door on him in shock, but he held it open.

"You texted me."

Shit. "I'm sorry. I was drunk and I wasn't thinking straight." She tried to dab inconspicuously at her shining eyes and then frowned. "Why are you in Brooklyn?"

"You texted me last night." He repeated, this time with the hint of a smirk. "I'm sure you remember what you said, you didn't drink so very much."

Irene straightened herself and attempted to look more like her dominatrix self. "Well, I can hardly suppose you're here for dinner. It's only nine in the morning, and even if it weren't, you're never hungry."

Sherlock was definitely smirking now. "Perhaps I'm not hungry yet, but I might be by dinnertime."

Irene quirked an eyebrow. "Perhaps I don't want to have dinner with the man who broke me."

He scoffed. "I didn't _break_ you."

"Don't be so sure. I moved to Brooklyn solely because of you. Why else would I be here?"

"To escape the people looking to kill you, I assumed."

"You assumed wrong. Well, perhaps not. It depends on who you consider someone trying to kill me."

"If you didn't want to have dinner with me, you wouldn't have texted me. I know you better than you think."

Irene shrugged. "I expect you to make it up to me at some point."

"Perhaps I will."

"You could start by cooking me breakfast."

"I don't cook." Sherlock replied, sounding haughty.

"Don't lie, darling."

"How did you know?"

She grinned. "I don't think I'll tell you. But even if you didn't know how, I'm certain you're clever enough to figure out eggs, toast, and bacon."

Soon the sound of sizzling and the scent of bacon, eggs, and toast filled the tiny kitchen and Sherlock set two plates at the table where Irene was waiting.

"Clearly I was right. You can absolutely cook." Irene said, breaking the yolk of her egg and dabbing at it with toast.

"I couldn't afford to live on my own for years and get takeaway all the time."

"I'm aware." Irene took a bite of bacon.

They ate in silence for a few moments. Irene finished her plate, dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and sighed. "I wish I could have such a nice breakfast every day."

"Maybe I'll make you one tomorrow."

She laughed. "You're so certain that you'll still be here."

"You've wanted to have dinner with me for a long time. You wouldn't give up the chance simply to get revenge. Not if you got your well-deserved chance to make me beg for mercy."

"Twice." She corrected before she could help herself and Sherlock smirked. She brushed it off. "Why are you suddenly interested in having dinner?"

"Curiosity." He replied, slightly to fast. It wasn't a lie, nor was it the entire truth. Any attempts to convince her it was because he regretted his previous cruelty would seem uncharacteristic and she didn't want pity. Of course there was no way he would admit to himself, let alone Irene, that perhaps there was a deeper reason.

"If you say so." Irene replied. "But do you honestly think I'd agree that quickly?"

Twenty minutes later they were strolling down the Brooklyn Bridge, their collars turned up against the wind, arms linked.

"Any new cases?" Irene asked as they walked, her hands in her pockets.

"Hardly. You had only just left when I decided to follow."

"You're mad." Irene said, grinning. "Not that I mind."

"Perhaps I am. It would explain quite a bit. But if I'm mad, you can hardly be quite sane to want to have dinner with a madman."

"'There's always some madness in love, but there is always some reason in madness.'" Irene quoted and Sherlock made a face.

"Quoting Nietzsche? Is that supposed to impress me?"

She looked disgusted. "Absolutely not. However, I thought it was applicable to the situation."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You think we're in _love_?"

Irene laughed. "Hardly. Lust, yes. Sentiment, perhaps. I doubt whether either of us is capable of feeling _love._"

Both of them were silent and tense and they walked like that for several minutes.

"Shall we go to the cinema, then?" Sherlock asked, his tone cool.

"Fine." She said shortly.

The building was nearly empty, early on a Thursday morning clearly not being an ideal time to see films. Sherlock bought two tickets to some sci-fi thing that neither of them were really interested in.

Halfway through the film, Sherlock slipped his hand over hers, silent forgiveness and an apology for his own wrong, and she tilted her head, resting it against his shoulder.

They were like that for a moment, the thrum of imaginary starships ignored in the background. Then she pulled his head down and pressed her lips to his. They both had their eyes open, watching each other as their lips moved against each other, until Sherlock pulled away.

"Is that a 'yes' to dinner?"

"Was it ever really a no?"

They continued kissing, several men plummeting to fiery deaths on the screen behind them, and then Irene stood up.

"We're leaving." She hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the exit. Once outside, looking slightly disheveled, they hailed a cab and directed it to Irene's flat.

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked, referencing their hasty departure.

Instead of responding, she kissed him again.

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**A/N: Well, thank you for reading! I don't think I like this as well as the other things I've written, some of it seems a bit choppy particularly where I've removed lyrics and such, but I do enjoy writing it. The rating may change in the next chapter, or not depending on what I decide to include. Originally there wasn't to be much of a plot but I think I happened upon something accidentally. Love you all very much! xM**


	3. grab your bag and grab your coat

**A/N: Hello, darlings! Thank you for all the positive reactions to the first few chapters. I'm a little frustrated by this fic right now, I had a very clear plan for where I wanted it to go when I first started it and that has changed drastically through editing and there are a few things I wish I could rewrite in those first chapters. My point is, I'm sorry for my slow going and my questionable plotting. And floratang mentioned they wanted to see dinner – I would, but my mother enjoys hearing about the fic and I don't think I could manage to tell her about Sherlock/Irene sexytimes. Maybe I'll do a deleted scenes thing. Anyway, enjoy! xM  
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Sherlock woke to early-morning sunlight filtering through the cheap blinds on the window. The room still smelled like cigarettes and sex and Irene's side of the bed was cold. He bolted upright, confused, and Irene's head appeared from the closet, looking nervous.

"Going somewhere?" Sherlock asked, giving the bag in her hand a confused glance.

"I've… got to go."

He frowned. "Is this about yesterday? Because if it is, this is your flat, you should be sending me away, not vice versa."

"No, it's not that." She threw a few more things in her bag. "Yesterday, at the cinema, you asked if something was wrong, and there was, but I didn't want to think about it until I'd had you on a desk." She smiled at the memory. "There's a man who's been following me. I'm not entirely sure who he is; I haven't got close enough to recognise anyone for sure, although I can certainly think of a few possibilities. Whoever he is, I highly doubt he's doing it just for a laugh."

"And this necessitates leaving because… You haven't enough people in Brooklyn who you can convince to protect you."

"Precisely."

"And I'm not good enough?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "Not when I don't know what I'm up against."

Sherlock stood up, the sheets falling from his unclothed body. "Then you should return to England. I'd suggest staying in the anonymity of a hotel, but anyone can come and go in a hotel. You'll have to stay in my parents' cottage in the country. I suppose it's charming, they go there for vacation, and it's fairly secluded."

Irene's smirk grew as he said all of this, and he quickly yanked a sheet over his waist. "You really have changed, Mr Holmes. First you show up here for dinner and now you're inviting me to stay with you?"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "You _do_ want to figure out who is following you I assume?"

"I-"

"And am I not the person best suited for that task?"

"Sherlock. I'm hardly complaining." Irene zipped her bag shut. "Now, as much as I enjoy you ask you are, you should get dressed."

Several hours and a few phone calls later, Sherlock and Irene were aboard a plane to England. They had somehow wrangled first class despite their last minute tickets and Irene was curled in her seat, draped in a blanket, her head resting on Sherlock's shoulder – a false image of domestic bliss. Sherlock had his laptop open and was typing frantically, clicking through dozens of pages. Irene finally grew restless and sat up. She glanced at the computer screen.

"What's that?"

"Narrowing down." Sherlock murmured, closing a few more screens that, before they disappeared, showed a brief profile of some man.

"He was quite short. Certainly not above six feet."

Sherlock shut a few more windows.

"I'd say his hair-" Irene began before being interrupted by a grinning flight attendant.

"Can I get you two anything?" She asked through her teeth, hand accidentally brushing against Irene's arm.

"Red wine for me, nothing for him."

Sherlock made an amused noise but didn't look up.

Irene was hand her glass of wine and, with another blinding smile, the attendant disappeared.

"She fancied you." Sherlock said quietly, trying not to laugh. "Engaged though. Too bad, you two would have been lovely together."

She gave a derisive snort.

"Not my type."

"What _is_ your type?"

Irene smiled. "Brainy."

He laughed. "And Kate was brainy?"

"You think I'd trust her with my schedule otherwise?"

"And I'm clever, of course. Who else?"

"You ask as if there've been so many others."

He raised an eyebrow. "And there haven't been?"

"You think my profession attracts serious relationships?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You're clever and attractive enough."

Irene laughed. "You and your compliments, Mr Holmes."

He brushed that off. "Don't you think we're a bit past formalities after last night?"

"The way you were ignoring it, I assumed it was just a one-off and we wouldn't speak of it again."

He frowned but neither confirmed nor denied this. After a moment- "You never answered my question."

"Which?"

"About your 'type'."

"What is _your_ type?"

"I don't have one."

"Why ever not?"

He pursed his lips. "I haven't been with nearly enough people."

"And you haven't been attracted to any?"

"Very few."

"But they surely had similar characteristics?"

"Yes, but I'm not sure it's quite the same attraction you're thinking of."

"How many? People, I mean."

"Two, really. Maybe three, if we're counting school."

"Who?"

Sherlock turned back to his laptop, scrolling through pages of information.

"Me?"

He continued to ignore her and the rest of the plane ride was spent in silence.

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**A/N: Thank you so much for reading. I may not update for a while (I know, it took forever for just this chapter but I handwrite them during class and then we had exams and then I kept losing papers. Now I've got a million office things to handle so I'm not sure when I'll be able to update next. And I need to figure out the next plot point! Thanks to all who left reviews, you brighten my day every day.**


	4. load the car and write the note

**A/N: Hey, I'm sorry this story is slow going. Work has been really busy and then there were about ten snow days and I hadn't finished the chapter and… whatever. I'm sorry, that's the point. This is a rather short chapter, but I figured I should update it sooner rather than later.**

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As promised, the cottage was charming. It was hidden by trees, with a small swing and empty beehives in the garden.

"It hardly seems the place to hunt down a stalker." Irene commented, pushing a drop cloth to the floor to reveal a sofa and a low coffee table.

"No, perhaps not, but I thought any other location might be a bit cramped. There are bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Not sure what we'll do for dinner, but…" He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her in the living room, surrounded by furniture looking slightly ghostly cloaked in white.

Irene lugged their bags upstairs. Unsure of whether or not Sherlock would stay in the same room as her, she peered into each room and when she saw a microscope and some dubious stains, she dropped his bags there. Her own things she left in the master bedroom and returned downstairs, where she saw Sherlock frowning.

"What?"

"There's no food."

"Can we buy some?"

"Yes." He sighed. "But we'll have to take the car."

The car was a gargantuan yellow affair. The hood was stuck down, so they drove through the grey landscape with their hair blowing wildly and the wind stinging their eyes. They tried to make conversation, but the wind ate their words and spit them back in a garbled roar.

The shop was relatively quiet.

Knowing Sherlock could cook, Irene threw all the essentials in the basket.

Knowing it would be immensely difficult to convince him to do so, she threw in some packets of crisps and biscuits.

The woman behind the counter was tiny, old, and bright-eyed. Her gaze was one that clearly meant "aren't newly-weds sweet?"

Laughing, Irene started to correct her but Sherlock stopped her, murmuring "Don't, she'll be suspicious." She turned her words into a cough and put an arm around Sherlock's waist.

It was beginning to rain as they reached the cottage. They hurried inside, the paper bags holding their purchases beginning to melt. They stood in the vestibule, dripping wet, and Irene's eyes sparkled.

"If you were anyone else, you would kiss me now."

"I still could." He replied, quiet.

"But you won't." She said quickly, shedding her dripping coat and padding to the kitchen in her bare feet to put away their things.

Dinner was silent and short. Sherlock had disappeared to his laboratory bedroom shortly after their outing and Irene had attempted a pasta dish that ended up overcooked with a thin, soup-like sauce that didn't have enough salt. The rest of the evening was spent eating crisps on the sofa, watching some terrible television program, the sole purpose of which was to drown out the silence. Finally Sherlock stood up.

"Come on."

"What?"

"I'm going to teach you how to cook."


	5. three words that became hard to say

**A/N: Wow, long time, no update! It's been a madhouse. I was promoted at work and then switched departments again and it was complicated and then… you don't care, you just want the story. Here it is! Warning: sexytimes ahead, nothing super graphic.**

"You honestly think you can teach me to cook?" Irene scoffed, following Sherlock into the kitchen with a hand on her hip.

"I'm bored and your dinner was squish, wet, and bland. It certainly can't hurt."

"I had half a year of private cooking lessons from a professional chef. You might be better off searching for the stalker.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "And how many of those lessons ended with you beating the chef with a riding crop on the table?"

Irene was silent.

"Anyway." He said loudly, taking pots out of the sink and rinsing them clean. "We're going to make that pasta dish properly. It shouldn't actually be that difficult, as you're using pasta from a box that _comes with directions on it._"

"I was distracted."

"Of course. Now, you fill the pot about this full-" His phone began to ring from his pocket, but he ignored it. "And you put salt in to add flavor. It also theoretically increases the boiling point…"

"Your phone's ringing." Irene said, pointing.

"I know. It keeps doing that."

"Perhaps you should answer."

He sighed and unlocked the phone. "Hello?"

From across the kitchen, Irene could hear John's furious tone.

"Where the _hell_ have you been? You said you were going to Dublin and would be back in two days!"

"I'm on a _case_, John." Sherlock sounded exasperated.

"Where?"

He paused a moment. "The countryside. And if you attempt to find me or get Lestrade or someone to locate my phone, I swear I'll start keeping eyeballs next to the milk again."

There was an audible sigh from John. "Mycroft's suspicious. You know he'll find you if he looks."

"I'll live." Sherlock said coolly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm making dinner."

Irene stifled a laugh and he gave her a sharp look. "What?"

"Dinner."

"What?"

She shook her head.

"Now you always put your water on to boil first-"

Irene rolled her eyes and he gave her a look.

"We haven't bought enough fresh tomatoes, so we'll use the canned ones for the sauce. Put them in the sauce pan and let it simmer for a bit." Sherlock stirred the sauce once with a wooden spoon and left it.

"Now what?"

"You've got to wait for your water to boil and your sauce to simmer. You could add some garlic and-" He was cut off when her lips met his. He was frozen for a moment as she moved against him and then pulled away angrily. "What was that?"

"No, what the bloody hell was _that_?" Irene replied, moving away from him with her arms crossed. "You follow me to America, show up at my flat practically _begging_ me to fuck you and now you're acting like it's _me_ being strange."

Sherlock turned to the stove and turned off the flames. "Oh, for God's sake. You don't honestly think it was a sentimental coupling, do you? I did t because I was curious. Now I know and I have no need to repeat the experiment." He was lying through his teeth and he knew it and she surely did but he would never admit to it.

"Why me? There are plenty of people who would be willing to help you with your 'experiment.' Even if you were looking for someone with experience, someone in my profession, there was no need to go to America."

"I knew you were interested and I thought, perhaps, I could do something to lessen the blow of my cruelty. Not that it mattered, but as I was looking anyway…"

Irene's features hardened. "You're a manipulative, lying bastard. God knows why I can even tolerate you." With that, she swept out of the kitchen and upstairs.

The rain that night could be easily heard pounding on the roof and the howling wind made the empty bedroom seem even more so as Irene stared at the ceiling. After half an hour of this, a shadow appeared at her door.

"You can't sleep." Sherlock said quietly.

"Neither can you."

He shrugged and then gestured to the bed. "May I?

She pursed her lips but didn't say a thing as he slipped under the sheets.

"Irene?"

She stayed silent.

"I'm- about earlier-"

She laughed. "Is it really so painful to apologise?" She asked, and he took a deep breath.

"I'm very sorry about earlier. It was harsh and not entirely true."

She was quiet. "Would you like to tell me what wasn't true."

He winced. "My motives."

"And what _were_ your motives?"

"I don't think I want to answer that."

She shrugged and they stared at each other for a moment before he leaned in and gave her a soft kiss.

This time, she was the one to pull away.

"What was that?"

"An apology."

She frowned. "I neither want nor need you to kiss me out of pity.

"There was absolutely no pity in that kiss. I did it because I wanted to apologise for earlier. And also because I wanted to."

If she hadn't been so close to him, she wouldn't have heard the last sentence. He kissed her again, and this time, neither pulled away. The kiss went on until he moved his lips, tracing down her jaw to her neck, down to her breasts. She sighed, eyes falling shut, and he slipped her lacy lingerie off her shoulders, pushing it down. His lips lingered at her breast, teasing her nipples into points, until he moved down, kissing across her stomach to her waistline and slipping off her panties.

It wasn't long before she was moaning, moving herself against his mouth, his tongue pressing into her wetness. She was close when he finally slid into her, her hands in his hair, his mouth on hers. Their first time had been wild and passionate and full of pleading. This wasn't the same. They moved slowly, and it was clearly an apology – his. It was lovemaking, though neither of them would admit it because that implied _sentiment_. When they came, her and then him, trembling and crying out, they lay with their limbs entangled for hours, drifting in and out of a contented sleep, sentiment be damned.


End file.
